"The thing about women," Spike slurred earnestly to no one in particular, clutching a whiskey bottle that seemed, in the reflection in the mirror behind the bar, to be floating in thin air, "is that they give you the big, wide eyes like they're a liiiiitle helpless fluffy bunny," and he affected a high-pitched whine, "`Oh please help me I'm so wounded and sad and I just need someone who'll be there for me,' and then, BAM!" He slammed a hand down on the bar, sending shotglasses tumbling like dominoes. "They reach inside you and tear your guts out."
"Watch the glassware," the bartender muttered at him. "You break it, you buy it."
Spike ignored the remonstration, pointing a slightly confused but very heartfelt finger at the other man. "And I know what it feels like," he continued doggedly, "'cause I've had a woman reach inside me and mess about with my guts. Well, not so much a woman as a crazy hell-goddess who liked to suck out people's brains. But she did--dug her finger right inside me and twisted everything all about, like I was some sort of… stew she was stirring." He sighed, a little wistfully. "That was nice, come to think of it. No pretense, no games, no bloody teasing. Just plain, honest torture."
The bartender eyed him. "All right, man, either you quit with the crazy talk or I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. After all you've had tonight, you ought to be drunk enough for three men, anyway."
"Drunk?" Spike repeated, offended. "D'you know what it takes to get a bloke like me drunk, mate?" He tried to number the scattered shotglasses in front of him, lost count at around fifteen, and then studied the half-empty bottle he was cradling. He couldn't have said for sure, but he had the distinct impression it wasn't the first bottle he'd gone through tonight. He frowned at the bartender. "Well, all right. You may have a point." Then, defensively, "But I'm not drunk because of her! I'm drunk because… I want to be." He brandished his finger again, to underscore his point, and ended up whacking it hard on the edge of the bar. "Ow!" he yelled, trying to shake the pain away. It cleared his head for a second, and he realized how he'd look to any self-respecting vampire: drunk, depressed, complaining to a human, screeching like a little girl over an owie on his finger, and all because of a woman. A stupid little blond bit of a thing he should have been able to kill without a second thought. He buried his head in his hands. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "I am a sad, sad wanker."
"You look like you could use some company," came a voice from behind him. Female. Fantastic. Just exactly what he needed.
"Had enough company for one night," he mumbled into his hands, willing her to just go the hell away.
"I know the feeling," she replied, and the resigned sadness in her voice was enough to make him look up at her as she slid onto the stool next to him. He'd never seen her before, that he knew of, but he'd seen others like her--long, dark hair; curves that seemed made for a man's hands; a short leather skirt that exposed a vast expanse of slim, muscled legs; and a challenge in those huge, sad eyes. Come on, she seemed to be saying, I dare you to hurt me more.
Time was, she'd've been exactly his type.
"Look, you don't have to talk to me," she told him, motioning to the bartender. "Just look imposing and keep the other guys away from me." She jerked her head in the direction of the far back corner of the bar, where a group of men were slumped at a table, leering. "Like you said, I've had enough company."
He considered telling her to sod off and leave him alone with his whiskey, but then again, she had said he was imposing… "Fair enough." He shrugged, sat a little taller, moved the bottle from his lap back onto the bar.
The barkeep brought her drink--whiskey, Spike noted, surprised, and a generous double at that. "Playing my song, luv," he told her with an ironic smile, gesturing with his own bottle.
She shrugged in return, clinking her glass against the bottle-neck. "Here's to it, then." She took a long drink, and wrinkled her nose a little, exhaling hard. "So," she said. "I know I said you didn't have to talk to me, and you don't, but I feel like talking, so if you don't want to answer, I'll just have to keep up both sides of the conversation by myself."
"I'm used to that," he answered, thinking of certain Summers women who hardly let him get a word in edgewise and yet still complained that he talked too much.
She laughed a little, mirthlessly. "She must be one hell of a woman."
His supercharged healing was starting to kick in, flushing the alcohol from his body (dammit), but he was still too far gone to deny it. "In the sense that she's become my personal version of hell, yeah, I guess you could say that." Then, quietly, reluctantly, "And in the other sense, too." He looked at her again. "How'd you know?"
"Well," she took another long swig, "I look at you, with that long leather coat and that fuck-the-world attitude and, let's be honest here--" she eyed him up and down, and he could feel the heat from her gaze--"that body of yours, and I wonder what kind of woman she must be to have you wrapped around a whiskey bottle like that."
He realized he was clutching the bottle again, and took a swig to match hers before setting it very deliberately on the bar. "Fuck-the-world attitude," eh? "Let's be honest, that body"? He was liking this woman better and better. "What about you, pet?" he asked, turning a little more towards her, motioning for the bartender to refill her drink. "Some stupid sod send you packing?"
She raised an eyebrow at his bluntness, but the alcohol seemed to be dulling her defenses a bit. "Yeah, thanks for putting it so delicately." And there they were, the fluffy-bunny eyes.
He snorted, chugged more whiskey. A pleasant warmth was beginning to spread through him again, sluicing away the tightness in his chest. "He's a bleedin' moron."
"Pretty much." She stared into her almost-empty glass, and the full glass the bartender set next to it, a tiny smile curving her mouth at the compliment. She had a lovely mouth, he couldn't help noticing. They were silent for a moment.
"Isn't this the point where we exchange the sordid details of our sad stories?" he asked finally.
"Doesn't matter," she replied, sighing. "It's the same old story."
Oh yeah? he thought. De-chipped vampire in love with the Slayer? Heard that one before? Still, he figured she was probably right--the details might have been a bit unusual, but the tale was a tired one. Love unrequited, love unattainable; it was the kind of thing he might have written poetry about, a century or so ago. The silence fell again. He drank, and he could almost feel the alcohol flowing through him, numbing him, turning his brain into happy mush. He was so tired of thinking, of hurting, of--
"You want to get out of here?" she asked suddenly. He narrowed his eyes at her.
"Why? So we can have a nice pity fuck? Thanks, I've had enough of those."
"No." The emptiness in her eyes was melting away, so he could see the raw pain behind it. "Because I want you, and I think you want me, and it feels good to be wanted. It would be dangerous and it would feel good and we might get to stop thinking for awhile. Besides," she added, with a hint of a challenging smirk, "it's cheaper than sitting here drinking whiskey all night, and I'd bet I'll feel better in the morning."
He looked her up and down, appraising her. She wasn't lying about wanting him; he could smell it on her. And he couldn't deny that she was right--it did feel good, being wanted for once. And his demon certainly liked the idea, he realized, as he found himself staring at the curve of her neck, the pulse beating steadily beneath the creamy skin. Then he glanced back at her eyes, and it hit him like a sledgehammer: he didn't want to kill her. Yeah, seduce-and-swig had always been more Angelus' style than his, but he'd never turned it down when it was offered like this. She'd even said she wanted danger, and he could feel his stomach growling. Still, he didn't want to. Oh, fuck, why don't I want to? Trying to stay calm, he mustered up a smile. "No offense, luv, but we'd best not. You might get more than you bargained for."
He'd expected hurt at the rejection, but she just kept looking at him, cool as a statue. "Why? Because you're a vampire?"
His jaw dropped. "You knew?" he hissed, for once trying not to draw attention to himself. Much as he loved a good bar brawl, he had a feeling he wasn't exactly at the top of his game, what with his earlier ass-kicking at the Slayer's hands and the gallon or so of whiskey he'd gone through since.
She rolled her eyes. "Of course. I've been in Sunnydale a long time, pal. And no one here's that pale unless they've got a serious sunlight allergy."
"What the bloody hell are you playing at, then?" he snapped. "You know what I could do to you."
She laughed harshly, crossing one long leg over the other and tossing her hair as she took another drink. "Yeah. You could make me like you. In fact, I was hoping you might."
Well, that was one he hadn't heard in awhile. He buried his head in his hands again, beginning to seriously regret the alcohol that was still fogging his brain. It made the whole thing seem like some demented nightmare. "Oh, balls…" he muttered feelingly, wondering if he was lucky enough that any minute now he'd be waking up all tucked away in his crypt.
No such luck. She grabbed his arm. "No. I'm not some stupid kid looking for immortality. I want to be strong. I want to be fearless." Her dark eyes were glittering now with angry tears. "I want to not care anymore."
He looked at her again, this time appraising in a different light. Her reasoning was as good as his had been, the night he'd first met Dru. 'Course, he hadn't really known what he was getting into, but he'd never once regretted it. He cocked his head. She'd make a hell of a vampire, he thought. All dark and fierce and tough and sarcastic. And if he sired her, she'd never want to leave him, she'd love him the way he'd loved Dru… and the way Dru had loved Angelus. She'd be his. His Childe, his to train, his to save. It was certainly tempting.
He opened his mouth, on the verge of telling her yes, he'd turn her and deliver her from mediocrity into glorious blood and mayhem. But all that came out was, "Sorry, pet. Can't do it."
"What?" she said incredulously.
What? his brain screamed incredulously.
His mouth kept going, oblivious. "I said I can't do it."
"Why the hell not?"
Why the hell not? his brain parroted, and he told it firmly to shut up. Still, it was a valid question. Why, indeed, the hell not?
As soon as he asked the question, though he realized the answer was obvious. Buffy. He could make this gorgeous dark creature love him, but he'd still be in love with the Slayer. He'd tried to stop enough times to know it was impossible. He didn't have any answers that didn't begin and end with her, and now she was driving him to deny everything he'd always been, to deny this woman the salvation that Dru had blessed him with. Even when she was gone, even when he hated her, even when his demon was exulting inside him, she was there. And there was nothing he could do to exorcise her. He wasn't sure if he was more terrified or furious at the realization.
He realized the woman across from him was still waiting for him to respond, eyes flashing with barely-contained fire. He chuckled a little, and gave her an answer--not the whole answer, but as good as any. "You'd make a brilliant vampire, pet. But it wouldn't help."
He watched the despair creeping into the anger. "It wouldn't? But you take what you want, when you want, you don't care about anything. Nothing can touch you."
He took a last swig off the bottle, set it down on the bar in front of her. "You'd care about me," he told her. "You'd love me, because I'd be your sire, only I'd still love her, and I'd leave you, just like my sire left me, and her sire left her." He shrugged. "If you're love's bitch, you're love's bitch. Becoming a vampire only makes it last longer."
She was staring at him, open-mouthed. "What kind of a vampire are you, anyway? I'm, like, throwing myself at you, here."
He sighed. "And it's flattering, luv, really. It's just… well… a hell of a lot longer story than I have time for at the moment." He tossed enough bills down on the bar to cover her whiskey and his, then pressed a few more into her hand. He had to get out of there before he lost it completely. "Here. Take a cab home. No sense in me turning you down just so you can get gobbled up by some other nasty on the way back to yours. You've got something to live for now--you can tell all your friends you've met the world's first toothless vampire." Then, re-considering, "Well, the world's first toothless vampire with good hair, anyway."
She frowned at him. "I don't get this."
He laughed bitterly as he got up and began making his way towards the door. "Neither do I, luv. Neither do I."
Well, at least I still know how to make a good exit, he congratulated himself wryly as he headed down the street. He heard footsteps behind him, and for a second he thought she might be following him, but the steps were too heavy. He whirled, hands raised to attack or defend, and then burst into incredulous laughter as he saw who was chasing him.
"Of course," he groaned, clawing a hand through his hair with a kind of amused resignation. "Should've known the worst night of my existence couldn't be complete without a visit from the bleeding bricklayer."
"What the hell was that all about in there?" Xander demanded, panting a little as he caught up to the vampire.
"None of your sodding business, is it?" Spike retorted, beginning to wonder if he'd really explored the full benefits of being able to hit the annoying little pillock. He might've been undergoing a bit of an identity crisis, but pounding on Xander for awhile was still well within acceptable limits. Then something occurred to him. "What're you doing here, anyway? Not exactly the type of place for good little boys and girls. The Slayer send you to check up on me?"
"No." Was it his imagination, or did the whelp sound a bit defensive? Looked like old Spike wasn't the only one who didn't like being thought of as the Slayer's lapdog. "I followed you."
"You what?" Spike grabbed the front of Xander's jacket with both hands. "You followed me? You. Followed me." Xander nodded, then coughed as the wind drifted his way.
"Geez, Spike. Whiskey much?"
Spike barely heard him, tossing the other man away, holding his spinning head in his hands and leaning against the alley wall with another heartfelt groan. "Bloody hell. Bowling Boy followed me. May as well paint a fat bloody target on my chest and declare it open bloody season."
"Hey!" Xander straightened his jacket, offended, and made what Spike considered to be a pathetic attempt to puff out his chest. "I've got military experience on my resume."
Spike favored him with a withering glare. "You've got a military costume on your resume, you moron."
"All right, Spike, that's it." Xander strode over, yanked Spike upright. "For five years, you've been telling me I'm weak, I'm helpless, I'm nothing but Buffy's butt-monkey." While Spike tried to eradicate that mental image, Xander continued, threatening. "I'm done. It ends here. Right here."
Spike saw the fist coming, but the whiskey slowed him down. He reflected, momentarily, that it was ironic that his vampiric healing abilities chose this moment to go on the fritz. Or maybe there were little pockets of whiskey inside him, hiding, waiting to ambush him. Then he was distracted from his musings by a surprisingly powerful shock on his jaw, and his arm was reacting of its own volition, readying a return attack. The fight with Buffy had been poetry; this was more like an off-key pub song--ugly, tactless, but still good enough fun in its own way. Punches, kicks, bites, even the odd hair-pull (though neither of them would admit to it later), fell with clumsy abandon. Despite the fact that they'd both been dreaming of this moment for five long years, it was something less than epic. They simply staggered about in the alley for awhile, Spike too drunk and Xander too, well, human to do any permanent damage. Finally, Spike lowered a shoulder and half-heartedly drove Xander into the wall, and they both slumped to the ground.
"Well," Spike offered, panting out of habit as he levered himself up against the wall, "I certainly feel much more manly now." He gingerly probed a loose tooth with his tongue. He'd taken more damage than he'd expected--whelp had an arm on him. Probably from hauling boxes of merchandise for the Queen of Capitalism, or some other poofter-type activity.
"Yup, gotta agree with you there," Xander wheezed, trying to catch his breath. He rolled over, sat up carefully, wincing as he reached up to gauge the swelling under his left eye. "Maybe we should've done this years ago."
"Unh," Spike agreed indistinctly, resting his head on the cool bricks behind him.
They sat quiet for a moment, recuperating, then Xander managed, "So really. What was going on in there? That chick was all over you--I thought you'd've snatched her up like a Slurpee." Then he grimaced, obviously working through the mental image. "Note to self: don't compare people to convenience store items."
Spike smirked. "She was all over me, wasn't she? And hot, too."
Xander nodded slowly, as if he was afraid his head was going to fall off. "That she was." Then, when Spike didn't elaborate, he prodded, "So? What happened?"
Spike laughed a little, feeling amused, helpless, and incredibly tired at the same time. "Buffy happened, that's what. As usual. Stupid bint won't leave me alone, all wrapped around my insides like a vise, squeezing and squeezing until there's nothing left of me." He couldn't believe he was telling Xander all of this, but the night was already so surreal, it kind of seemed to fit. He realized the boy was staring at him.
"What?" he asked defensively.
"You really love her, don't you." It was more of a statement than a question, but still, Xander seemed to be having trouble getting his head around it.
Spike laughed again, bitterly. "Yeah. What tipped you off--the pain or the neutering?"
Xander was still staring at him. "And you turned that woman down, for her."
Spike nodded, staring up at the sky with a self-deprecating grin on his face, feeling a temporary but welcome sense of detachment.
"Yeah. I thought getting the chip out would help, but it didn't. Just made everything worse. Now I don't have an excuse for not knowing what the hell I am. I just know I'm not what I used to be, and it's all wrapped up in her and Dawn and even your little Superfriends, and there's fuck-all I can do about it. As long as I remember her, I'll be fighting against my nature every day for the rest of my immortal life." He shook his head, his eyes unfocused. "Worst part is, it's not just that she made me care. It's that she made me want to care." He paused, looked down. "Don't know if I can forgive her for that."
Neither one of them spoke for a while after that, as the slowly-dwindling sounds of the bar filtered into the alley. Then suddenly, Spike looked sharply at Xander.
"You tell anyone about this, I'll make you pay for it, Slayer or no."
Xander laughed weakly. "Hey. This isn't exactly a high point for me, either. Your secret's safe with me, Evil Dead." Then, looking as if the words pained him, "I was wrong."
Spike raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna need to specify there, mate. That covers a lot of territory."
Xander huffed out his breath, frustrated, but soldiered on. "I was wrong about you. I mean," he rushed on, as Spike's eyebrow climbed even higher, "it's not like I want to start picking out china patterns with you or anything." He stopped for a second, his eyes glazing over slightly at some painful memory. Plans for the Wedding from Hell, no doubt. "Oh, God, how I don't want to start picking out china patterns. But," he continued, focusing back on Spike again, "when I'm wrong, I admit it. And maybe you're not the completely worthless, evil, psycho stalker parasite I thought you were."
"Thanks ever so," Spike replied dryly, but he was horrified to feel a tiny, pleased spark somewhere in the darkest recesses of his chest.
"I still don't like you," Xander added hastily.
"Couldn't be more mutual," Spike replied almost before Xander finished his sentence, glad to be back on familiar ground.
Xander laughed a little. "Good. Well. Better be getting home. I've got to start work in--" he checked his watch--"hey! Three and a half hours. Nothing like a sleep-deprived man operating the heavy machinery." He rose slowly to his feet, grimaced as he put weight on his left leg. "Ow. I think you twisted my knee."
Spike snorted. "Pansy."
"Eunuch," Xander shot back. Then he shook his head, grinning reluctantly. "See you around, Spike."
"Looks like it." Spike slumped back against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. He let the exhaustion wash over him and wondered what, in the name of all that was unholy, he was going to do.